


They live on the edge

by FastestKeyboardTyperInTheWest



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: M/M, Modern AU- Reincarnation, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 04:41:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/706676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FastestKeyboardTyperInTheWest/pseuds/FastestKeyboardTyperInTheWest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is only just before sleep, and in his dreams, that he sees them: the children of the Barricade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They live on the edge

He never sleeps very well. He’s never passes out when he’s drunk, and going to sleep is tortuous, a long and broken period of tiredness and unconsciousness. It is only just before this period, and in his dreams, however, that he sees them : the children of the Barricade.  
  
There were those who fell and Marius, who lived. There is Courfeyrac and Gavroche, brothers, if not in blood, the poet and the medic, Joly and Jehan, Bousset, Bahorel. Feuilly and Poland, Combeferre and his level, disapproving head. And Enjolras. He is the one R remembers the least, for some reason. He can remember only light, metaphorical or not, encircling his head and words he did not believe in but would follow to the end of time.  
  
Then, sometimes he sees the final battle. Blood, death, his friends all gone, nothing left but dread in the pit of his stomach and cheap wine on his lips. Then a warmth in his hand and nothing.  
  
They are merely dreams, he knows, but it doesn’t stop the feeling of belonging and sorrow that springs in his gut whenever he’s there.  
  
\--  
  
R has a boring life, with a boring job, and the little pleasure he gets from it comes exclusively from either alcohol, cigarettes, shit music and the little fantasies he entertains in France in the early hours. His fridge is barely half full, his pay less than that of his closest friend and fellow artistic-person-working-in-a-supermarket, Ep (short for something she’s never revealed to him) and his art career is going nowhere. The few people he’s sold his stuff too have said it was either ‘good’ or ‘brilliant’ but there is so little sold (three pieces, all commissions, in the last year) that his work isn’t going to get out there and he won’t sell anymore. Vicious circle. When he does paint, which isn’t very often, barricades are drawn and red and black circle the air and there are shadows of men who may be in his imagination but may not be.  
  
\--  
  
He’s flicking through channels, attempting to find anything, something bright and ballistic, because he’s drunk and in the mood, when he catches the news. And something flickers and secures itself in his head and he jumps to the floor, pressing himself as near to the screen as possible. It’s them. Courfeyrac with Gavroche on his shoulders, dirt and hoodies on them both, Jehan in the background, a hand on Courf’s shoulder, Joly in the far corner tending to someone on his hands and knees. A flash of bald and dark hair and thin face flash near the camera. Combeferre, unmistakable, shouting something and pushing against the police officers, flyer (or banner) in clenched fist. Enjolras in the centre, right in front of the camera, shouting words in an American accent, angry and passionate and mean, eyes boring into the souls of all watching. He sinks back.  
He was definitely right about the glow.  
  
\--  
  
Thank God for the BBC, he thinks, clicking on the link to the ‘Friends of the ABC’ homepage. It’s still a shit name, better in french, but he can’t blame them from holding onto it, even if they don’t know quite why. The location’s quite near, outskirts of London, in- oh good god- the Musain. What the hell? That’s an impossible level of coincidence. And luck, because if that battle proved anything, it’s that they don’t have a lucky chance at anything. He scrolls down the intricately made webpage (a whisper in his head suggests that it is Jehan’s design) and finds the next meeting. Tomorrow, 8pm. Honestly, one would think he had luck on his side. He laughs, grabs a small bottle of vodka, and drinks heavily from it. It sends his mind into spirals. Is Ep a part of this? He can’t remember anyone of that name (and definitely not female) around the barricades, though it’s extremely likely he was being drunkenly philosophical at the time, so he could be wrong. And he knows their faces but he can barely remember their personalities, bar from a few details. Will they recognise him? Will he alone remember anything of a past life? He doesn’t know, but it’ll end badly, somehow, because it always does.  
  
\--  
  
The place is nice cafe, but there is a long staircase in the corner of the well furnished, buzzing room, dirty and broken, with a small sign saying ‘friends of the ABC ahead’. The landlady is remotely familiar. He climbs it silently, taking in the well worn bars and the scent of something languid in the atmosphere. There are stars for a second: Enjolras, looking at all of them, asking them if they want to fight for France. He remembers knowing that he would never fight for a country like that, but that he would fight to the death for Enjolras and his friends. Seemingly, he did. He pushed open the battered door easily (and why was everything so broken around here?) and walked in, a few nerves pooling in his gut. They were there, all of them. His eyes fled around, seeing the people he had known in new forms and the same forms. A mop of curly, short hair turned around, grinning. He seemed to be beginning to form the word ‘Hi,’ when his eyes seemed to go as wide as saucers.  
‘Grantaire?’ Courfeyrac barrels over to him and wraps him in a hug. Forever a ball of energy, it seems. He remembers it all for one moment: Courf, his friend, who laughed at his drunken jokes and was better with the women then he could ever hope to be. He hugs him back. As they pull away, he sees the light of recognition in the others eyes. Soon, they are all talking; grasping his hand, patting his shoulder, asking if he remembers, too. Even Marius, still across the room and arm in arm with Cosette, seems to know him, and in the moment their eyes connect they nod and acknowledge one another. He searches out Enjolras in the crowd surrounding him, in a red hoodie, eyes studying the group around them, confused. Enjolras fixes his eyes on R. R fixes his eyes on Enjolras. He does not recognise him.


End file.
